The Raven's Nest
by sweetfidelia
Summary: Blackwood wins. Things go downhill from there. Angst, slash HolmesWatson , torture, alternate movie ending. Updated 4.1
1. Chapter 1

^&^

The cell was cold and as blank as a slate. Stone walls, iron bars surrounded him and a floor covered in a thin layer of dirt was the only soft thing Watson could feel beneath his fingers as he lay, his cheek pressed to the unforgiving ground. His eyes were closed and he concentrated on breathing, one shaking inhale after the other.

It was very quiet. He could hear faraway noises, banging metal and shallow screams but they faded eventually, leaving him to listen to the blood rushing through his ears and the air flow in - out - of his tired lungs. He wondered how many other prisoners Blackwood had taken, he was sure it was more than anyone suspected.

He wondered how on earth they'd failed so miserably.

The cards had been stacked against them, there was no denying it. Too many vipers had been sitting in their midst since the beginning. Coward, the monster's high-placed toady had been one, as well as Adler's mysterious professor who had allowed the poison machine to do its work before taking away the part he wanted. Not to mention his own _loving_ fiancee who'd turned out to be a snake in the guise of a sweet governess, clinging onto Blackwood's robes and smiling as they dragged Watson off to the prison where the rest of the high-level 'dissenters' had ended up.

God, he should have known.

Weeks had passed and the government was in ruins, with Blackwood and his minions playing the role of saviors. The public, shocked and wanting nothing more than the return of normality had accepted his dominance without large-scale protest. Blackwood was named Imperitius and spoke of world domination, as another man might speak of a coming rugby match or game of chance. Everyone listened and nodded and simply prayed they wouldn't be taken away next.

Damned sheep, Watson thought angrily, remembering when he'd taken an oath to protect his Queen and country, come what may. But that was probably why he was in prison along with other like-minded patriots - he couldn't be trusted. Confinement was a badge of honor and Watson was fine with that.

In theory. At the moment Watson was merely trying to think past the pain, wondering where Holmes was and how the devil he might, somehow, correct this madness. Blackwood had taken a special pleasure in beating Watson once they'd captured him, a personal brutalizing that had lasted for hours until he'd lost all fight, simply going slack and allowing the blows to fall where they would. Surprisingly, he didn't think anything was broken, but John Watson was sure this was only the beginning and not the end of his ordeal.

Groaning, he pushed himself up on his hands and crawled to the wall, sliding up to sit. He tilted his fiercely aching head back against the stone bricks, hoping to derive what little comfort he could from their coolness. Swelling began its inevitable rise in various areas that Blackwood had attended to - his lip and along his jaw, along with the ever-present ache in his already sore leg. With a sigh, Watson realized that he probably wouldn't last long enough to be of use to his nation, let alone anyone else.

Again, he wondered if Holmes was alive and scalding bile rose in his throat at the thought that he might not be. If Blackwood had treated him - Holmes 'loyal dog' - in such a manner, Watson could scarcely stand to imagine what Holmes' fate might have been. They'd been separated before the fatal moment and he hadn't heard anything since, between the hiding and his betrayal by Mary, whom he'd been eager to take off with, thinking that Holmes would simply catch up when he could.

_Idiot_, he berated himself again. _You left Holmes behind and this is your reward._

Watson screwed his eyes shut. Misery, cold and hollow filled his chest. Holmes dead. It was a thought that was as horrifying as it was unfathomable. The image of him alone and suffering when Watson should have been there by his side, vainly calling out for him or worse, silently hating him for being abandoned by the only man he'd ever called 'friend'. Maybe he'd been glad to die alone, without his fickle partner there to hurt him more than Blackwood ever could.

"Oh God," Watson murmured, his eyes burning. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Holmes. I was a fool. I'm sorry." He curled over his knees and bit back tears, hating himself. So occupied was he with his own misery, he almost didn't hear the taps against the small grate on the nearby wall, one of the ancient vents connecting cell to cell in this oldest of dungeons.

_Tap, tap, tap_. There it went again. Watson wiped his eyes and slouched down, straining to listen, his ear against the metal grate. "Hello?" he whispered. "Is someone there?"

Suddenly a slim fingertip reached through one of the small holes and tickled the whorl of his ear. Watson jumped, then peered through the grate more closely.

A familiar pair of brown eyes stared back at him. Joy, like a sunrise, burned through Watson's blood. He nearly cried out, but he controlled himself at the last second, not willing to give anything away. "Holmes," he whispered frantically. "My dear ... oh, I thought I'd never see you again. How are you? Are you all right? What has happened since we parted? Where ..."

"Gently, Watson." Holmes' voice was rough and strained as from disuse. "All in good time. Tell me how you fare first."

"I am well enough."

"You are a very bad liar, my Watson. Try again."

"Blackwood has paid back some of his own with interest," Watson admitted. "And I am currently a single man as Mary revealed her true nature once the plot had come to fruition."

Holmes made a pained noise. "Ah, my poor friend. I am truly sorry."

"No, you're not and you shouldn't be as I no longer care," Watson said firmly. He pressed his hand against the grate, absurdly happy when he felt the flat warmth of Holmes' mirrored touch through the metal. "You and I are together now, against all odds and I will not be leaving you again. Be assured of that."

"I'm afraid I cannot make the same promise. I fear Blackwood has little affection for the thought of me continuing to breathe." Holmes' exhaled shakily and for the first time, Watson noticed that his palm was tinged red with dried blood. "He's been quite ... ruthless in his revenge. I'm almost afraid he put us beside one another in here to make things all the worse."

"Then the joke is on him because now I feel strong enough to take on ten Blackwoods," Watson whispered back fiercely. "Don't you give up. You are the better man, Holmes. Remember that."

Holmes' laugh was short and bitter. "I am a failure. Plain and simple. But I appreciate the compassion behind your words. Now, tell me what you've heard while on the outside. I was taken on the bridge and have not known any news since."

Watson swallowed hard, scarcely believing his ears. "Have you been here that long? The disaster was weeks ago."

"I'm afraid he's almost as handy with your sword as you are. Now tell me what he's done, spare nothing. I need to know."

Watson told him the story then, about the breakdown of the government. How the Queen refused to go into hiding and so was taken prisoner, to the very Tower where her ancestors had held their enemies. The rest of the royals had been scattered over the continent and the standing forces on the island had reluctantly capitulated, but the overseas military had not yet declared allegiance.

"So the game might not be over yet," Holmes sighed once Watson had finished. "That's good news."

"Now tell me of your hurts," Watson insisted. "Perhaps there is some way we can treat them, as foolish as that might sound."

"Fear not. Blackwood's doctors are quite happy to repair me for the next round of payback." Holmes' hand fell away from the grate as if he were too tired to hold it up any longer. "I'm sorry that you're here, Watson. I wouldn't have wished this on you for the world."

"There is no place I'd rather be than by your side," Watson replied in a quiet voice. God, how he wished that damned wall wasn't separating them and he could see Holmes face to face. Sliding down, Watson pressed his cheek to the grate in an effort to get closer. "Whatever is to be faced, we'll do so together."

Holmes reached up again and a rough thumb pad rubbed over Watson's cheekbone in tiny, soothing circles. "My Watson. Don't waste your courage on me."

"Nothing that concerns you is a waste," Watson swore, relaxing into Holmes' gentle touch. "Be of good heart. We are not done yet."

"I hope so," Holmes whispered. "I truly do."

He didn't sound very convinced, Watson thought, gliding off into an exhausted sleep. Perhaps the morning would bring clarity and better things.

If not, at least they were no longer alone.

^&^

tbc ... more to come.

Reviews are love. :D


	2. Chapter 2

^&^

They were taken out the next morning, separately, to Blackwood's 'interrogation' room. Watson felt tendrils of fear snake down his chest but he showed nothing, remembering his army training as to how to behave if captured by the enemy. He expected the worst but wasn't prepared for Blackwood's grim tableau by any stretch of the imagination.

Holmes was already there, his arms chained over his head from a fabricated pillar, the weight of his entire body dangling so he stood on the tips of his toes. His eyes were fixed on the ground but as always, he was completely aware of his surroundings as well as Watson's presence which he greeted with a pained wince.

Horrified, Watson examined Holmes closely. His face was a mass of shallow lacerations, scattered over his cheeks and forehead. A small razor? A whip? He had no idea. The uncovered forearms were tainted with bruises of various shades, the fresher ones bright shades of purple to the older, uglier ones, green and yellow at their edges. His wrists were raw red at the edges of his manacles and his arms ... God, his arms. So many needle marks, too many to have been administered by Holmes himself in the days before Blackwood's escape, too many of them fresh.

Watson's stomach turned. A monster. Blackwood was an utter monster, of this no one could have any doubt.

Watson felt himself shoved into a chair and tied there, cursing under his breath the entire time. With effort, he inhaled deeply and spoke to Holmes, as gently as possible. "I'm here, Holmes. You're not alone. We're here together."

"I wish to God you weren't," Holmes whispered, screwing his eyes shut. "I'm sorry, John."

"Hush. Don't apologize. Do whatever you must to ... to ..." Watson hesitated. To stay well? Obviously that was impossible. To stay alive? Was that all they could expect? "I am with you," he repeated, a bit desperately. "Always."

A door on the far side of the chamber creaked open. Blackwood strolled in, obviously as pleased as any triumphant madman could be, Watson thought bitterly. His hands unconsciously clenched and tugged at the ropes around his wrists which refused to budge. He turned away from Blackwood and kept his eyes focused on Holmes who, in turn, kept his gaze glued to the floor.

"Welcome, Doctor. I'm assuming you've had a happy reunion with your old friend," Blackwood asked, his polite tone belying the evil underneath. "So, again I ask - looking at the great detective now, what do you think of my work?"

Watson didn't reply. The response was a stinging crack across his face and Holmes jerked in his chains with distress. Taking a deep breath, Watson weighed his options even as he worked his jaw to relieve some of the pain. The army's regulations hadn't prepared him for this. Maybe in this particular situation, speaking was a better route.

"I think you're ridiculous, as usual," he said casually. "Surely you don't expect me to change my mind on _that_ count."

Blackwood chuckled softly, his gloved finger tracing a line down Watson's jaw. "Breaking you will be one of the highlights of this entire experience."

Holmes made a soft noise, catching Blackwood's attention. Watson knew he'd done it on purpose and grimaced at Holmes protective instinct, still intact even while he was the one suffering a worse fate.

"I have to say, I expected more from this one," Blackwood said, grabbing Holmes' chin and twisting until he was looking up. "By the time we met again it was as if he'd given up all hope and zest for life, for some reason. I wonder why that was? You don't have any ideas regarding the strange apathy of our friend here, do you, Doctor?"

"Besides the fact that you are a murderer, a coward and a monster? No, none at all," Watson said. He swallowed past a tight throat, not wanting to think about Holmes' lonely apathy and what probably had caused it. "Why not come here and commence that breaking you're so boastful of. I actually feel quite good today," he said, hoping to incite Blackwood away from Holmes and back to him. "Surely that must bother you."

"Indeed it does," Blackwood replied and he motioned for his whip. Watson braced himself but the blow never came. Instead it was delivered against Holmes' chest, making a small cry sound out from between his tightly closed lips. Gaping, Watson shook his head instinctively, his mouth forming the word 'no' over and over again, but somehow he mastered control over his voice, knowing that screaming at Blackwood would only inspire him to further acts of cruelty.

The whipping continued for what felt like an eternity. Blackwood finally stopped, as Holmes' body dangled loosely; he was likely no longer conscious. The so-called Imperitius turned to Watson with a sweet smile. "How do you feel, Doctor?"

Filled with horror, Watson could only stare at Blackwood, his mouth open. "You son of a whore," he ground out, hardly knowing what he was saying. "You dripping bastard." The whip whistled and caught Watson in the face, cutting his cheek but he kept going. "I'm going to kill you!" he cried, nearly tipping the chair over in an effort to get to Blackwood. "You won't know what's hit you once I'm done dissecting you, piece by filthy piece. Have at it, have at it here and now, you coward!"

Blackwood laughed. It was a disturbingly kind sound. "I'd like to take you up on that offer, dear Doctor, but I have a world that needs ruling. Perhaps another day? In the meantime, you can perform the new duties I have lined up for you. I think you'll like them."

With a toss of the whip back to one of his men, Blackwood left, his black longcoat swirling out behind him. Watson was still cursing roundly, even as they untied him and hauled him off to another part of the prison, to what looked like a crude facsimile of a doctor's office, complete with an examining table and medical supplies.

He barely had time to take in the room completely when Holmes was brought in after him and dumped unceremoniously on the table, his battered body nearly sliding off until Watson caught him in his arms.

The guard motioned gruffly. "Fifteen minutes. Make good with it. It's the only treatment he'll get."

Watson stared at him in disbelief, even as the door slammed in his face, the lock turning from the outside. His attention turned directly to Holmes who was stirring awake, a groan humming deep in his throat. "There, there," Watson said shakily, pulling Holmes atop the table as gingerly as possible. "There you are, my Holmes."

He had to work fast, but it was hard to even think with his hands jittering, his mind twisting in horrified circles. Trembling, he pulled away the tattered shirt and nearly wept at the lash marks, criss-crosses of pain piled atop of older, deeper ones. Watson could tell that many of them would scar. He had to feel around for the supplies needed to help Holmes heal as much as might be possible, his eyes watering so badly, the tears having their way whether he wanted them to or not.

"Don't," came a soft voice and a touch to his arm. "Don't give way like this. It's not worth it."

"Please let me work," Watson begged, his hands shaking so badly he wasn't sure if he'd be able to apply the topical ointment needed without hurting Holmes further. "I can't think at the moment and I must concentrate."

Holmes' dry lips curled up into that little smile that Watson had always associated with the best of times they'd once shared, but now seemed so terribly out of place. Holmes submitted to the treatment without a sound, even though Watson was sure he must have been in terrible pain all throughout it. Sitting Holmes up, he bandaged him as best he could. When it was through, Holmes dropped his forehead onto Watson's shoulder, breathing heavily, not moving even when Watson wound his arms around him in as gentle an embrace as he could manage.

He nuzzled his cheek into Holmes' dark, wild hair. "Forgive me. I caused this. I was not thinking."

Holmes shook his head. "This is no one's fault but Blackwood's. Once you start blaming yourself, therein lies the way to madness. I'm only grateful they let you treat me, even though it was done to cause further grief." He sighed shakily. "You have to find a way of escape for yourself. It's imperative that you get out of here, by any means necessary."

"_We_ need to get out of here. I'm not going anywhere without you," Watson growled, tucking his face against Holmes' neck. Hardly knowing what he was doing, he impulsively kissed the warm pulse there. "Never again."

"So we will just have a repeat of this scene or worse for the rest of our sorry lives, then?" Holmes replied, his voice breaking. He brought up his hands to stroke the short hair at the base of Watson's neck. "It will be easier if it's just you. I ... I don't have the strength anymore. I .. can't. He's not going to be stopped until someone like you stands up and stops him. And I don't mean for my sake alone."

"You are assuming I'll find a way to escape which doesn't seem very likely. It is a moot point as I will not leave without you," Watson stubbornly repeated as the door flew open. Reluctantly, he disentangled himself from Holmes and let them drag him back to his cell, straining to keep his eyes on Holmes for as long as possible.

For a moment he was afraid that they'd move Holmes somewhere else, but no, he heard the other cell door open as Holmes was led in. Watson lay down by the grate and Holmes did the same, but silently as Watson whispered what comfort he could, keeping his fingers pressed the cold steel weave. Sometimes Holmes' hand would slip up and touch his, but it would fall away just as quickly.

Eventually, Watson heard light, steady breathing that indicated Holmes had fallen asleep and it wasn't until then that he closed his eyes and tried to wipe away the remnants of the day, as terrible and terrifying as any he'd known.

^&^

to be continued ...

_Thanks for the reviews. They are inspiring. :D_


	3. Chapter 3

^&^

Days passed. Watson had somehow expected to be tortured daily, but Blackwood hadn't been joking about being busy it seemed. Instead, the wait for the next incident seemed to be part of the torture, but at least he could pass the time in the adjoining cell talking to Holmes through the grate or listening to him hum, old tunes from the days when he'd play the violin for Watson on Baker Street.

"Still trying to put me to sleep?" Watson teased gently, his whisper a quiet echo off of the dungeon's stone walls. "Wagner is hardly lullaby material."

"You confuse intention with necessity. It's the only one I remember how to hum at the moment." Holmes seemed to have a bit more energy, at least that's how it appeared to Watson but God only knew how long that would last. "I do miss my violin."

"I will get you a new one when we are free. I swear it," Watson replied passionately. "All will be as it was."

A long, uncomfortable silence followed. "I doubt that, Watson. But for now, let us keep as many pleasant thoughts as we can. Why don't you hum for me?"

"I can as easily carry a tune as I can an elephant, you know that." Watson sighed and turned onto his side before touching his hand to the grate, relieved when Holmes mimicked the gesture, their fingertips pressed together. The warmth from that small touch permeated his body, causing certain breathless - as well as indecent - reactions over the past few days. Vaguely, he wondered if Holmes knew what was going through his traitorous mind, but accepted that the man knew everything and, thankfully, had decided not to say nothing.

"Surely you can think of something we can do. Why don't we play one of those analysis games you're so fond of?"

"Word association?" Watson chuckled. "Supposedly it's not a game. But here, I'll go first. Grass."

"Chlorophyll."

"All right, rule number one: no reciting of chemicals for every answer. Try again."

Holmes sighed. "Meadow."

"Sunshine."

"Picnic," Holmes replied, his fingers sliding down to touch the center of Watson's palm, causing him to shiver.

"Blanket," Watson replied. He closed his eyes and concentrated on Holmes' touch, as tiny and fleeting as it was. It felt like a spark of pure fire, coursing its way through his veins, straight down between his legs. _Dear God ..._

Holmes whispered his reply. "Bed."

Watson inhaled sharply as Holmes traced the lines of his hand. "You," he replied hoarsely, his voice betraying him, but Holmes didn't seem to mind.

"Us."

God, his body was a complete traitor, his prick suddenly as hard as a rock. He had to bite back a moan as Holmes kept _touching_ him, even if it was barely so, the _presence_ of him was so intense that Watson felt the familiar knot of orgasm, improbably -- impossibly, edge its way down his spine. "Want," he panted, his hips arched in delicious agony.

"Take," Holmes rasped, his voice like a caress. "Take whatever you want, John. I'm yours. I've always been yours."

And, oh god, that was the end of him. Watson groaned helplessly and stars were seen, exploding behind his closed lids as he came and came, his nails digging into the metal grate, the floor, anything he could gain purchase on. Such brilliant pleasure, over far too soon and he felt a flush of embarrassment as wetness spread over the front of his not-exactly-clean pants. "Holmes ..." he stammered, not sure what to say.

"I'm not going to take it back," Holmes replied, in the same tone he'd use during a case when he'd made up his mind about something. "So don't ask me to."

"I wouldn't want you to," Watson replied, still fighting for breath. "I just wish you'd told me a bit sooner."

"What is that prosaic little saying you used to employ? Ah, yes. Better late than never."

"My dear Holmes ..."

"Sleep now, dearest. I fear tomorrow our reprieve may be up. He has a pattern of three day stretches before he itches for another round." Holmes took his hand away and Watson keenly felt the loss. "Remember what I said to you. You would do both of us a favor if you'd concentrate on escape."

"As if I could leave you now. You must be mad as a hatter," Watson said fondly. He slid his hand away with reluctance. "How I wish I could kiss you properly."

"With any luck, that will happen once this has ended in our favor. Not before. Now sleep, my John, and remember there is one person in this world who thinks of you and your happiness with all the hope in his heart."

Watson opened his mouth to say more, but Holmes had already drifted off. Staring at the ceiling, Watson tried in vain to fall asleep but his mind kept going back to Holmes and his sweet words, so long in coming. His thoughts then drifted, for the first time, to the very slim possibility of escape.

_Perhaps ..._

^&^

to be continued ...

_Ah, the schmoop before the storm. Thanks for all the reviews and favorites. They keep me typing!_


	4. Chapter 4

^&^

As Holmes had predicted they were taken to the room again, but this time their roles were reversed. Watson was hung from the pillar while Holmes was forced to sit. The detective blanched with horror at the arrangement but Watson was relieved even if he wasn't looking forward the inevitable result. He was stronger than Holmes was at the moment and any reprieve he could gain for him would be a welcome sacrifice.

Holmes didn't seem to agree. "Grown tired of me already?" he taunted when Blackwood sauntered in. "How fickle you are, Your _Majesty_. By the way, for the ruler of a sovereign nation, you have terrible fashion sense. I'm sorry I have to be the one to tell you that. We're merely left to wish the Emperor had no clothes."

To Holmes' credit, the beast actually looked annoyed. "I'd cut your tongue out, but there might be use for it yet."

"I'd cut your heart out but you don't have one," Holmes shot back, struggling with his ropes, ignoring Watson, who was trying to catch his eye to tell him to 'stop'. "You have tiresome games, Blackwood. I have to say that I will be bored to death long before any of this business does me in. Aren't you ashamed that you have yet to kill me?"

Blackwood considered before running his hand up Watson's thigh, making the doctor squirm in shock. "I can't imagine this boring you. Look at him." The cruel fingers wrapped themselves around Watson's member and squeezed, hard, eliciting a sharp cry of pain. "Or have you spent the last few years of your life doing just that? Watching him as he bathes and sleeps, hating yourself and anyone else who would dare to try to enjoy what you always considered yours." He leaned in and lewdly licked his broad tongue across Watson's mouth, making him choke with disgust. "Not that I blame you. He's quite the sight and I think I'd like to see all of him."

Holmes went perfectly white and still. "Stop it."

"Make me," Blackwood replied, undoing the buttons of Watson's waistcoat, one at a time. "You know our deal. You only need to say the word."

Heart pounding, Watson looked up quickly at Holmes who was wild-eyed with desperation and terror. "No deals, Holmes. Please. This is nothing, I swear it. Look away and it will all be over soon enough. I beg you." Another brutally hard squeeze to his member and Watson gasped, but didn't cry out. "You know he can't be trusted," he coughed, the pain making his gut twist in agony.

"You don't need to trust me," Blackwood said while in one smooth motion, ripping Watson's shirt open. He bent in to bite at a nipple, making Watson flail in the chains in a futile attempt to escape. "You only need to agree. Now, I wonder how the rest of him looks."

"Holmes ..." Watson warned, his voice shaking. He had no idea what this 'deal' was, but knew it wasn't good. "Don't."

Blackwood's hand rested at the button of Watson's trousers. His fingers played with the opening but before he'd popped it open, Holmes spoke.

"I'll do it," he said quietly. "Let him go, leave him alone and I will do it."

Both Blackwood's and Watson's eyes went wide, the former's with dark joy, the latter's with shock. "Holmes ..." Watson groaned brokenly.

Blackwood smiled broadly and patted Watson's cheek with exaggerated affection. "Don't fret, Doctor," he said, sarcasm dripping from his voice. "You of all people should be happy that a great mind will no longer be going to waste. He will make a very good tactician in the building of my brave new world and I daresay you will enjoy being my gift to my new - and best - advisor." Blackwood nodded to his men who immediately freed both Holmes and Watson from their bonds. "But remember, gifts can always be taken back. Serve me as you ought and a joyful life will be yours."

It was a line from one of his many speeches. Watson recognized the words and his stomach roiled with disgust. Blackwood held out his hand to Holmes and Watson had to look away when Holmes reluctantly kissed the black ring sitting on his finger. He felt like raging but there was nothing to be done except allow himself to be led out, this time to a well-furnished set of rooms where a hot bath and new clothes were already waiting, along with real food and not the stale gruel and water they'd been fed for days.

Watson sat for a long time, staring into the fire place. His body throbbed with pain where Blackwood had abused it but he hardly noticed the aches, so occupied he was with Holmes' capitulation to the monster. Understanding why he'd done it was easy enough but how impossible it was to reconcile the stalwart man he knew and loved with the one who had just given in to the evilest man on earth.

Finally, he rose and stripped off his filthy clothes, taking advantage of the bath while it was still warm. He scrubbed hard at his skin as if to wash away Blackwood's touch and felt better once done. The clothes were an odd recreation of one of his old suits, the brown one Holmes had always favored him in and Watson shuddered a little at the attention to detail, bordering on psychotic. He dressed and ate, hardly tasting the food, as hungry as he was.

Hours passed. Watson sat and watched the fire die down to embers. He felt bone tired and was just about to consider lying down when a voice sounded behind his ear, startling him.

"I know you hate me now. I don't begrudge you that," Holmes said. He was also bathed and wearing ... dear God ... one of the suits used by Blackwood's magical cult, a dark tuxedo crossed over the shoulders by thick gold and blue velvet bands. His hair was clean and slicked back and his face was pale and beautiful, even covered in cuts as it was.

Watson stared at Holmes, torn between the thought of kissing him and hitting him. "You shouldn't make fun of Blackwood's fashion sense. Yours isn't what it used to be," he said finally. "What the deuce are you thinking? I'd rather he force himself on me a hundred times before seeing you reduced to this."

"And I would rather not have him touch you at all. Seeing as the choice was mine to make ..." Holmes looked away, his throat working. "As I said, I've earned your disdain."

"So how is this supposed to work?" Watson asked, ignoring Holmes' dramatic statement. "You're going to be his new toady. And I?"

Holmes pulled uncomfortably at the crisp bow tie surrounding his neck. "You are my companion, here. Where you will be safe and sound and no one may touch or hurt you again."

"Oh. I see. And if I am not comfortable with this arrangement?" Watson snapped, annoyed. "This arrangement that once again I was completely in the dark about even though we've had days to discuss things? I'm not a plaything or a child, Holmes. You can't make these decisions for both of us behind my back. This is what drove me crazy about things in the first place."

"Must we argue now?" Holmes asked, slumping down into one of the chairs. "Can't you simply accept that I cannot abide you being hurt? That it was fine when it was just myself and I would have held out until death before giving in, but now ..." Resting his head on his hands, Holmes raked his fingers through his hair. "I can't, John. You may be my strength, but you are also my only weakness. If you can't forgive, please try to understand, at least."

The voice, usually so confident, sounded small and broken, making Watson's heart ache. It still didn't change things. "I don't accept this situation, Holmes and I never will. But I understand why you've done this. That isn't to say I'll go along with it. You might be better off putting me back in my cell, as I won't be a part of this," he said, exhaling shakily. "I will not play this game of Blackwood's. And until you deny him ..." He stopped there, turning his face to the fire, his back to Holmes.

He could feel Holmes dark eyes staring at the back of his head. "You'll go back to that cell over my dead body," Holmes said coldly. "You are staying here with me."

"Very well, but I will not be Blackwood's 'gift' to you. I have no wish for you to touch me while you are part of his organization," Watson said, his trembling voice betraying his true emotions. "If you have any inclination toward me, you will rethink this foolish course of action and then I will reconsider."

"You're impossible," Holmes growled, jumping up and grabbing Watson by the chin, forcing him to look up. "I am trying to save you."

"You're doing a bad job of it," Watson replied, yanking his face out of Holmes' grip. "I said you are not to touch me. Go to your master and get a new toy if you must. I am not that man."

All color drained from Holmes' face. He looked as he sometimes did after the cocaine was administered - wild and filled with angry energy. "You are everything, but most of all, you're mine. I want for no one ... nothing else and so help me, I'll make you understand this if it takes the rest of my life."

With a barely repressed shiver, Watson turned away. "I'm tired, Holmes. I wish to rest," he lied. "I will lie on the floor, as there is only the one bed."

"Get in the bed," Holmes snapped. "Don't worry, John. Your virtue is safe. It has been all these years, hasn't it?"

Watson wasn't sure how to reply to that, so he didn't try. He took off his coat and shoes and climbed into the bed, huddling beneath the thick quilt. Holmes sat silently and stared off into the distance, as he used to when lost in his calculations. Suddenly, Watson missed Baker Street desperately, wishing they were back in their sitting room together, talking and laughing, seemingly without a care in the world. Thoughts of the sweet sound of Holmes violin, Mrs. Hudson's tea and those ridiculous experiments that would cloud up the house every other week, made Watson shut his eyes against the memory.

God, how tempting it was, the desire to forgive Holmes completely and invite him into the bed beside him to spend the evening as they ought to, making love, instead of standing apart from one another in anger. But Watson couldn't ... every atom in his being wanted to fight against Blackwood and his plans and if Holmes was to be even a reluctant part of those plans, then he would have to fight him too.

The thought nearly broke his heart. This pleasant room, Watson thought, was the worse cell by far.

^&^

tbc ....

_Thanks for the reviews, they are much appreciated! They help keep the fingers typing._


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